


roses, wilting

by This_Time_I_Wont_Regret_My_Username



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Auror Ron Weasley, Character Death, F/M, Feelings Realization, Guilt, Hostage Situations, Infidelity, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-War, Sad Ending, Some Fluff, Some Humor, Unresolved, Violence, mentioned human trafficking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24568159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_Time_I_Wont_Regret_My_Username/pseuds/This_Time_I_Wont_Regret_My_Username
Summary: Ron Weasley. All of Draco's regrets are tied up in that name. He's Draco's Auror partner, a married man, only deserving of love and respect... yes, all of Draco's greatest regrets trace back to Ron.But there's no denying that, even as the rose wilts, Draco is still very much in love with Ron Weasley.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50
Collections: HP UnHappily Ever After Fest 2020





	roses, wilting

**Author's Note:**

> This was hell for me to write on top of my current mental state, and I ended up writing three different versions of this prompt. But! I think it turned out okay, and a HUGE thank you to my good friends and alphas, L and R. I couldn't have done this without you guys. I would've given up and given up halfway through if it wasn't for you, and lord knows there were some strange errors too.
> 
> The story takes place from 2010 to 2011.

Draco sips his firewhiskey, eyes scanning the ballroom, trying to spot anything suspicious. As of yet, there’s nothing. The room is large and open, the lighting dim, a live orchestra at the front of the room. No one seems Imperiused or there against their will, and it seems exactly as a normal charity auction would. He stands at the back, leaning against the bar, watching couples dance to some overly-upbeat song about falling in love or some shite like that. It’s clear that this is not a human auction.

At this point, every minute he’s here is another minute he has to pretend his eyes don't keep going back to a certain couple. He would’ve downed multiple shots by now, if not for the fact that he’s supposed to be on the job.

_Supposed_ to be. He’s already determined that this lead is a dead-end—and so has Ron. Hence Ron dancing with some Pureblood witch Draco doesn’t care to know the name of, but Draco knows that careful gleam in Ron’s eye.

There’s an ache in his heart and a weight in his stomach when he catches sight of Ron’s smile. Both of them are Polyjuiced, and glamoured for good measure, but there’s no mistaking that grin. They’ve been Auror partners for twelve years, and Draco knows Ron’s expressions so well that he can recognize them even if he’s Polyjuiced.

“See anything unusual?” Draco’s eyes turn sharply to the woman who spoke beside him, almost reaching for his wand before he thinks better of himself. The witch is short and rosy-cheeked, with dull blue eyes, blonde hair. _Harry_.

“Besides the witch trying to shove her tongue down Weasley’s throat?” Draco asks bitterly, unable to stop the way his lip curls.

“You may as well just call him Ron. You’re not fooling anyone,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. Draco’s jaw tightens and he looks down into his drink. The movement of the liquid when he swirls the glass centers him, if momentarily.

“Haven’t seen anything yet,” he bites out. The glass of whiskey is pulled away from him, set roughly on the counter out of his reach, and Draco doesn’t even protest. He only bites his tongue and leans against the bar, waiting for Harry’s next words.

“Look. As a friend, if you want my advice—”

“I don’t,” Draco cuts in. Harry continues as though he didn’t hear a thing.

“Talk to Astoria. Work things out with her, before you do something you regret.”

Draco wishes he had his drink back in his hand, at least so he could have something to look at other than Harry’s hardened eyes. He worries, unreasonably, that Harry can read his thoughts, and it sparks his anger again.

“What do _you_ know?” he asks.

“A lot more than you, clearly,” Harry says, “No more drinking tonight.”

With that, he walks away, leaving Draco to scowl and mutter to himself. He tries not to feel relieved when Ron stops dancing with the witch a song or two later—and he tries even harder not to smirk when Ron comes over to him, prattling on about how Draco should’ve saved him.

O.O.O

When Harry tells them what tattoo they’re going to get, Draco sits there for a few moments and tries to come to terms with the fact that he’s going to have a tea bag on his arm for the rest of his life. All because he lost a bet—which was entirely Ron’s fault anyway—and the only plus to the situation is that Ron’s going to be stuck with a teacup.

He tries not to think about how they’re getting _matching_ tattoos.

“Maybe it’ll make a funny story someday,” Ron sighs. There’s a bit of misery in his voice when he says it, which makes Harry laugh, and Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. It most certainly will _not_ make a funny story someday. It’ll only make them seem more stupid than they already are.

“I didn’t take you for a sadist, Harry,” Draco says lightly. It only makes Harry laugh harder, and Draco decides that he’s done with the conversation until further notice. Instead, he takes in the sights and smells of the tattoo parlor.

The floors are dark and gleaming, the grey walls covered in pictures of previous happy customers. The pictures are still, because the parlor is open for Muggles as well, though Harry said there’s the option to charm the tattoos to move if they want to. It smells like cleaning products, though not overwhelmingly so, and Draco relaxes marginally into the leather sofa beside Ron. At least Harry chose a tattoo parlor that isn’t questionable.

Ron elbows him in the side, drawing his attention back to the conversation.

“Did you shower before you came? It’s common decency, you know,” Harry says, lip twitching. Draco scowls and crosses his legs, leaning back on the sofa. He’s certainly not just trying to distance himself from Harry’s amused eyes. His arm presses against Ron’s, but he doesn’t move it.

“Yes, and I would have in the first place, even if you hadn’t pestered me for the last four days to do it,” Draco says. Ron snorts.

“Four days? It was only two for me,” Ron says. Draco scowls and scoots away from him. With his arms crossed, he knows he seems petulant, but it’s been too long of a day to care. He only wants to get this over with.

“You make it too easy, Draco,” Harry says, grinning. Draco ignores him, picking up a magazine on the table, flipping through it absentmindedly. The tattoos shown on the pages somewhat hold his attention.

The conversation turns to work, and Draco continues to ignore them until their names are called. They go into a separate room, leaving Harry in the waiting room, and Draco rolls up his sleeves. The artist asks him to confirm the position and look of the tattoo before they get started, and he does. He’s not too particular about it either way. It’s just a tea bag on his upper-arm, and Ron will be getting a teacup on his lower-arm so that their tattoos will line up.

The process of getting the tattoo is more painful than Draco thought it was going to be, and when the tattoo pen first touches his arm, he sucks in a breath, clenching his fists tightly. He looks at Ron, expecting amusement or at least some stupid comment, but it would be better than only focusing on the pain.

But Ron lays his hand on top of Draco’s closed fist with a soft, comforting smile.

“It’s okay,” he says.

And Draco can believe that it is, when he unclenches his fist and laces his fingers between Ron’s.

O.O.O

Draco’s boots thump lightly on the tile floor as he walks to his office, precariously balancing two cups of coffee and two wrapped croissants in his hands. He absently thinks that he could just levitate the items and take away the risk of spilling everything, but there’s a certain amount of amusement to be found when he makes Ron open the door for him.

Draco stops just outside the office, eyes glancing over the plaque that reads “Sr. Auror Malfoy, Sr. Auror Weasley,” and kicks the door a couple of times. The door flies open before Draco can do it again. Ron steps aside so Draco can pass him, staring after in exasperation.

This is how they start their work day now. Being Auror partners breeds that sort of routine.

“Do I have to point out that you could’ve levitated everything, or was this just to spite me?” Ron asks. Draco smirks, offering up one of the cups of coffee and a croissant.

“Why would I ever do such a thing?” Draco asks, mock-hurt. Ron rolls his eyes, taking the offered coffee and pulling a face when he sips at it. His nose scrunches up, frowning down into the coffee cup, and Draco can’t tear his eyes away from those pouting lips.

“This is definitely yours,” Ron says. Draco breathes a laugh, breaking out of his daze, and takes the coffee away. He may or may not have given Ron the wrong cup on purpose, just to see that expression.

When Ron decides that he’s happy with his actual coffee, Draco turns towards his cluttered desk, only to stop once he notices a rose laying on top of a stack of files. He freezes momentarily, aware that Ron is staring intently at him, and that’s what pulls him forward. He crosses their small office in three strides, carefully avoiding the thorns on the rose as he picks it up and smells it. The petals are soft and delicate beneath his fingers.

It brings a smile to his face, warmth bursting in his chest.

Ron’s arms wind around his waist, resting his chin on Draco’s shoulder, and Draco leans back into that broad chest. He shuts his eyes, practically melting into the touch. He absently hopes that the door is shut, but he loves the scent and warmth of Ron too much to check.

“From you?” he murmurs. Ron nods and slides his hands under Draco’s robes, one less layer between them.

“You’re the tea to my teacup,” Ron whispers against the shell of his ear. Draco’s lips twitch. It’s stupid, which he loves simply because it’s _Ron’s_ kind of stupid.

“Is that your way of saying you want me inside of you?” Draco asks. He’s joking, but mostly not.

“If you’re offering...” Ron trails off. Draco bites his lip and tilts his head to the side a bit, offering his neck to Ron, who immediately presses open-mouthed kisses up to his ear. Draco shivers and spins around in Ron’s arms, unable to stop himself from pulling Ron down by the collar and pressing their lips together.

“Silencing charm,” he says against Ron’s mouth. He feels Ron flick his wand, the silencing charm sliding into place. Ron’s wand clatters against the desk before those calloused fingers push beneath his robes and untuck his shirt.

Draco lets him. He knows it’s dangerous, because if they get caught, both of them will be sacked, and that’s not even the start of it. But Ron’s hand is in his hair—the only person allowed to do that—the other one wandering lower, and he can’t get enough of it. There would be no waiting for the weekend to do this.

But even as Draco’s control starts slipping, he doesn’t forget to pull off their wedding rings. They clink when Draco drops them on the desk, as far away as possible from where Ron is laying, and long legs wrap around his waist. The gasps of his name pull him away from the clinking that echoes in his mind.

O.O.O

The rings glint in the corner of his vision, taunting him, telling him that this is wrong. Eventually, Draco stops noticing that too.

Draco goes home smelling of Ron. He can still feel Ron’s heels digging into his back, the trails of fire that those lithe fingers traced over his chest, over his scars. Though Ron’s touch will fade and Draco will inevitably crave more, those breathless gasps of his name will remain in his mind forever.

The ring is back on Draco’s finger and, after double and triple checking, he’s sure that he didn’t accidentally wear Ron’s home again. The rose is in his left hand, a preservation charm on it, clutching at it desperately as he squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates on _home_.

He apparates just outside the garden, the wards accepting him as he opens the gate and walks up the garden path. The azaleas are in full bloom along the walls of his and Astoria’s cottage, bright bursts of pink against the cream-colored stone, the humid heat sinking into his bones.

He walks up the gravel path, past the vivid greens and blues and life pouring all around him, and leaves it behind when he walks into the cottage and shuts the door. The lights are out, the atmosphere still, no Astoria-shaped lumps hidden beneath a blanket. It’s clear that she isn’t home yet. After a moment of indecision, he puts the rose in the back of his pants drawer where he knows Astoria won’t find it.

Draco doesn’t want to shower, so that he can cling to the scent and feeling of Ron for just a little while longer. Because he has to, he showers, the scent washing away as if it were never there.

After dressing in his pajamas and spelling his hair dry, he shuffles along to the kitchen. It’s dark, the sun completely set, and he hunts around the fridge for dinner. They used to make dinner for each other the first few years of their marriage, but they stopped after a while. As he moves to shut the fridge door, his ring glints from the weak light, making his eyes dart straight to it. His heart jumps, throat tightening.

He stares at it for a moment, a decision in his mind, and he hesitates only slightly before tugging the ring off his finger and setting it on the counter. It’s almost a relief to have it gone—a burden he doesn’t have to carry.

It hits him then, with the relief and the guilt and the disappointment: he’s not in love with Astoria anymore. He wonders when that changed.

There’s a familiar _crack_ from outside, and then footsteps on gravel, and Draco’s heart beats painfully in his chest as he jumps. He shuts his eyes as he forces the ring back on his finger. He can’t look at it, because he knows it doesn’t belong there—he’s no more Astoria’s husband than Ron is Hermione’s.

One day, he’ll tell her, but that day isn’t now, and there’ll be time for that later.

He greets Astoria with a soft hello and a kiss on the cheek instead of her mouth, unreasonably afraid that she might taste Ron on his lips. Her eyes are tired and she thinks nothing of it. She asks him about work, and he asks her the same, and the answers don’t vary much from the night before.

O.O.O

The pub is crowded when Draco arrives twenty minutes late. It’s Friday, and he’s late for the first time in three years. He rushes in, pulls off his scarf, and pushes his way to their usual table in the back. As he suspected, the rest of them are already there—Ginny and George already draining their first pints of beer—and waiting for him with grins and sniggers.

As always, they’re sitting on one bench around a round table, in the usual order: Harry on the outside, then Ginny, George, Ron, Hermione, and then Draco and Astoria. Astoria is _supposed_ to be on the other side of Draco, at least.

“And the Slytherin Prince graces us with his presence!” George yells over the noise of the bar. Draco wants to scowl at the horrible nickname that no one’s used in ten years, but the atmosphere is so familiar and warm that he can’t.

“We thought you’d never get here,” Hermione calls, scooting down the bench for Draco to slip in beside her.

“Where’s Astoria?” Harry asks as he pushes a pint across the table for Draco, who shrugs in response and takes a gulp of his pint.

“She’s not feeling well,” he lies. He can’t stop his eyes from flickering to Ron for a moment. No one except for Ron knows that Astoria hasn’t been coming home.

“Ah, that sucks. Tell her we hope she feels better soon!” Ginny chirps. She’s clearly already buzzed. She never says anything to Draco with that much excitement.

The conversation shifts to work—to Hermione speaking of the unseen politics in St Mungo’s, Ginny gossiping about members of the Falmouth Falcons before she switched to the Wigtown Wanderers, George telling wild tales of customers. Even though it’s all very entertaining, Draco can’t stop his eyes from drifting over to Ron to see his reactions: his private smiles, his loud laugh, his little quips, his _everything_.

Draco has memorized the freckles on Ron’s face. He knows how many there are (one hundred-seventeen, to be exact) and he knows all the shapes they make, all the patterns. He gets lost in his thoughts, stealing glances over at Ron, trying to make it discreet.

At some point, he realizes everyone is staring at him—including Ron—and it takes all he has not to blush.

“What?” he asks. He spots Harry’s knowing look and chooses to ignore it. He focuses on Hermione, trying to tell if _she_ picked up on his staring at Ron, but her eyes are glassy and cheeks flushed, and he knows she hasn’t.

“We’re getting another round!” she says, pushing on his arm. After a brief moment of confusion, he stands, letting her and Ron get out of the booth.

“Someone’s got a crush,” Ginny says sing-song, once Hermione and Ron have gone. He’s unable to stop his blush this time, turning his gaze to the barely-touched beer in front of him.

“I don’t!” he says. The forcefulness of his voice isn’t doing him any favors when he can’t even look at them.

“Not even Hermione looks at Ron like that,” George comments.

“Ooh, you’re right!” Ginny says, then hiccups. She’s clearly drunk, and it probably won’t even mean anything the next day, but Draco’s face gets hotter as he scowls. George laughs, but Draco notices that Harry hasn’t said anything. He looks across the table and sees Harry’s disapproving frown, an unreadable look in his eye.

“You should’ve seen your eyes, Draco,” George says, voice breathy, and Ginny giggles wildly. Harry’s frown turns disappointed.

“Guys, stop,” he says, “That’s not even funny, it’s just embarrassing.”

They stop laughing and roll their eyes, but don’t say anything more, and Draco feels a sense of relief until he notices the dark look in Harry’s eye. He’s unable to focus the rest of the night, hyper-aware of all the times he’d look at Ron and of Harry’s eyes on him, but nothing comes of it.

O.O.O

Draco sighs tiredly as he walks out of Robards’s office. There’s a lot they’re going to have to do for this case. More information was uncovered about the people they’re after. It’s possible the kidnappings and auctions are run by corporations. They’ll have to go through ledgers and company records, but it’ll take ages without more… questionable spells to reveal the intentions of a company.

He makes sure to stop by the kiosk on the eighth floor for a cup of coffee before he heads back to the office—his fourth cup today—and slows down once he steps off the lift. He passes Andrew, the secretary, and gives a small smile before he walks a few steps down the corridor. The first door on the right is Harry and Williams’s office, but neither of them are in there. He frowns and turns back to Andrew.

“Andrew, have you seen Auror Potter?” he asks. Andrew looks up from the papers on his desk and ponders for a moment.

“I think I saw ‘im head to your office a bit ago,” he answers.

“Thanks,” Draco says. Andrew’s smile is strained and brief before he turns back to his work, and Draco walks down the corridor.

He listens to his footsteps on the tile and nods to the portraits as he walks by them. He drinks his coffee. He does what he can to try and ignore the case, but it doesn’t take long until Draco’s mind turns back to it. He runs over Pensieve memories, case files, witnesses, the ledgers… and something just isn’t adding up.

He’s so focused on the case that he almost doesn’t notice the low voices coming out of the office. He recognizes them as Harry’s and Ron’s voices, and something about it makes him pause.

Draco knows he should walk in and get back to work, that he has important information to share about the case, but he can’t help but listen. He absently runs his fingers over the raised letters of his and Ron’s names on the plaque beside his head, leaning his head against the wall as he listens.

“Look, you were drinking, and so was George. I didn’t notice anything, and _I_ was sober,” Ron says. Draco furrows his eyebrows, throat tightening. He’s sure they’re talking about Friday night and the way Draco stupidly kept staring at Ron.

“ _Ron_ , I’m not the best at romance, but even _Ginny_ sees it. He’s in love with you,” Harry says forcefully. Draco’s heart stops beating. He’s not—he’s not in _love_ with Ron. He can’t be. He’s _not_.

“Harry, that can’t be, just listen—“ Ron starts.

“Is there something going on between you two?” Harry interrupts. Draco’s heart beats once, twice, and he walks in before he can hear any more.

Ron’s ears are burning, a sick expression on his face, leaning against his desk. Harry stands with his back to Draco, arms crossed, but Draco doesn’t have to see Harry’s face to know he’s disappointed. He could hear it in Harry’s voice.

He doesn’t want to know what Ron would’ve said. He’s afraid that Ron would’ve told Harry the truth, because to Ron, there’s not much of a reason not to. Their secret would still be safe and it might even be relieving.

But there’s so much to lose if Harry knows. Because if Harry knows, then what he and Ron have isn’t _theirs_ anymore. It’s for Harry to know about, to judge them for, to hold against them. And Draco won’t be the person to step between Ron and Harry. Not after all they’ve been through together.

There’s a thought that he already is stepping between Harry and Ron and Hermione, separating them all, pulling them apart from the inside. But he pushes it aside as he steps into the office with his eyebrows raised, a cold expression falling into place just as easily as breathing.

“Robards has an update for us,” he says, drawing their attention to him.

And then it’s business as usual.

O.O.O

Draco comes in to work early the next day. He won’t ask Ron about yesterday. In fact, he’ll pretend he never heard anything at all. Instead, he decides that today is the day he learns how to cast a Patronus. He’s heard the rumors about what happens to your Patronus when you have a strong connection with someone, and he has to prove something to himself.

There’s a _what if you prove yourself wrong_ lingering in the back of his mind, but he pays it no attention. If he does, then he’ll never learn how to cast a Patronus from the fear of what form it’ll take.

He sits at his desk, flipping through file after file about the kidnappings, examines memories in the pensieve, and even thinks he’s found a new lead by the time Ron gets in.

Ron is bleary-eyed and yawning, not registering that Draco’s there until after he hangs his robes up beside the door.

“You’re here early,” he says. He comes over to the desk, tilting his head to the side to read some of the notes Draco jotted down.

“Your hair is a mess,” Draco replies. Half of Ron’s hair is sticking straight up, the other half frizzy, and Draco wonders if Ron usually wakes up like that. He doesn’t try to push away the image of waking up beside Ron anymore, because he knows it’s useless.

Ron yawns and shrugs like his hair doesn’t bother him at all--though Draco knows it does--and he taps on the case file absently.

“This… actually fits the pattern,” he says slowly, nodding to himself, “Maybe you should come in early more often. It seems like you pick up on things no one else does, but only at ungodly hours of the morning.”

“Whereas there are godly hours of the morning?” Draco asks amusedly, leaning back in his chair.

“That time between late breakfast and early lunch,” Ron says without hesitating, completely straight-faced. Draco shakes his head in wonderment.

“Where do you even get these things?” he mutters. Ron just smiles and takes the case files off Draco’s desk.

“Coffee,” is all he says, and Draco sighs dramatically, even as he stands to make his way to the coffee kiosk on the eighth floor.

It doesn’t take long to get the coffee and croissants, having made it in before the morning rush, and he’s back to the first floor before Ron’s finished flattening his hair. He hands over the correct coffee on the first try for once, to Ron’s pleasant surprise.

“Teach me how to cast a Patronus,” he says abruptly. He knows he’s being straightforward, and he knows he’s probably being too eager, but he can’t help it. Ron, mid-sip, just raises his eyebrow.

“Ah. That explains why you got here early,” he says after a slow swallow.

“So you’ll teach me?” Draco asks, not inclined to either confirm or deny Ron’s statement. Ron looks at him evenly for a minute, clearly thinking it over, before he decides.

“Alright. But you won’t produce a corporeal Patronus right away, so don’t get all hissy when you can’t do it immediately,” he warns. Draco grins and removes his robes.

“We’ll see about that,” he says.

An hour later, he’s not grinning. He’s able to produce some mist, but not much more than that. He pretends he’s only a little relieved when Ron suggests they take a break. They sit on the edge of Ron’s desk, sipping their coffees and, in Draco’s case, finishing off his croissant.

“What memories do you use?” Draco asks after resting for a few minutes. Ron hums, taking a bite of his untouched croissant, leaning back in his chair as he thinks.

“Mostly, I think of cases that went well. The first case we solved together. When Harry invited you to Friday night drinks and you actually came, and it went well. All the Friday nights since then,” Ron says slowly, a gentle smile on his face. He stares at his hands as he talks, fiddling with a quill.

“You don’t think about your family?” Draco asks before he can think better of it. He freezes when the words are out, afraid he’s said something wrong, but Ron doesn’t seem bothered.

“I mean, that’s a given, isn’t it? I think of my nephews and my nieces, especially,” Ron says. Draco remembers James, Albus, and Lily. He doesn’t visit Harry’s home often, or the Burrow for that matter, but he remembers enough to think they’re cute—even if they’re a trio of brats, like their father.

After a moment of hesitation, Draco plunges forward into territory he knows he shouldn’t enter.

“And Hermione? Do you think of her?” he asks, voice soft. At this, Ron tenses, before he relaxes, and Draco’s reminded of how much Ron had matured since Hogwarts.

“Yes, I do. She was my best friend for a long time,” Ron admits. Draco stays silent for a long while.

“You don’t love her anymore?” he finally asks. He doesn’t love Astoria anymore, either, he wants to say.

“We never loved each other. We got married for a lot of reasons, but not because we loved each other. We were just comfortable enough to pick each other,” Ron explains.

It reminds Draco a lot of the arrangement between his parents and his own marriage, and the reminder makes him uncomfortable. He remembers how he didn’t want to marry Astoria, but fell in love with her over time—and now, he’s fallen back out of love with her too.

“I didn’t marry Astoria for love either,” he says quietly.

“But you wouldn’t leave Astoria for this? Everything we have together?” Ron asks, standing. His voice is tired and frustrated, but beneath it is hurt. Draco’s heart sinks in his stomach.

“You wouldn’t leave Hermione for me,” Draco says. Ron’s expression goes carefully blank, and he steps towards the door, the corners of his lips tightening. The distance growing between them stings. Ron pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

“You haven’t given me a reason to believe you’d be waiting for me if I did.” He doesn’t look back at Draco as he says it. Draco’s throat tightens, tearing his eyes away from Ron’s back.

“I suppose you’re right,” he whispers.

Ron opens the door and leaves Draco to his own thoughts. He stands there for a few minutes, staring at the ground in front of him, until he realizes he’s waiting for Ron to come back. He scowls as he sits and tries to work, but his thoughts turn back to the look on Ron’s face when he mentioned Hermione.

He puts his face in his hands, shutting his eyes so that he won’t have to see his ring. His throat is tight, eyes burning.

There’s no denying it anymore. He’s in love with Ron.

He wishes he had realized that ten years ago, before he decided to propose to Astoria. Did he ever love her, or was he mistaken? There’s a horrible fear in the pit of his stomach—he knows he’s fucked everything up, known for years, but he’s always been unready to admit it to himself.

He’s afraid that if he recognizes the fact that he loves Ron, then he won’t be able to stop himself from saying it.

But his fears are over nothing, because he doesn’t say anything at all when Ron comes back into the office fifteen minutes later. They work for the next eight hours in silence.

O.O.O

The azaleas are shriveling and dry when Draco comes home, the air cold and biting. The house is dark and still, as it has been every time Draco gets back from work. Astoria walks in later and later. Draco never asks where she’s been all evening, and she never offers an explanation for the strange scents on her robes.

He stands in the kitchen for a while, staring at his hands. Not for the first time, he’s hit with the guilt and the shame of what these hands have done—what _he’s_ done. What way is there to make up for that?

Absently, Draco walks down the hall, into the bedroom—all cream-colored, to Astoria’s taste—and summons the rose from his pants drawer. He cuts his finger on one of the thorns as he grabs it from the air, the blood coming quick, and he heals it with a murmured _episkey_.

The petals are as soft and velvety as the day Ron gave it to him. Despite how they left off earlier, Draco’s chest still bursts with warmth when he holds it, and his lips curve into a soft smile.

_Ron_. He whispers the name into the silence, relishing the way it feels on his tongue. There’s so much to that name—so much that’s happened, and so much he wants to happen again.

After a moment of hesitation, he holds onto the feeling of Ron’s name and all those memories, and waves his wand.

“ _Expecto Patronum,_ ” he whispers. Silver whisps emerge from the end of his wand, illuminating the room, before a jack russell terrier takes shape. Draco stares at it in wonderment as it bounds around the bedroom, laughter bubbling in his chest. He did it.

_Ron helped me do this_ , he thinks. It doesn’t quite occur to him that his Patronus is the same as Ron’s.

There’s a crack of apparation from outside, startling him, and the terrier fades. He’s left in the darkness, listening to the front door open, and his hand falls to his side.

He walks back to the kitchen to see Astoria taking off her scarf. The light makes her dark hair gleam, her pale skin coming to life, and he knows that she’s absolutely beautiful. It’s a shame she married him, instead of someone who would love her the way she deserves.

“Hey,” he says softly. She turns to him with a tired smile, hanging her scarf up on the coat hanger.

“Hey,” she says. His heart stutters. For a moment, he considers not doing this at all. But then he thinks of Ron’s face, and he’s reminded of the guilt and wrongness of _not_ doing it. She deserves better—and _Ron_ deserves better.

He bites his lip, takes off his ring, and sets it on the kitchen counter. He sees her face go blank in confusion before he looks away, because he can’t bear to see the moment where she realizes what he means. His hand rests beside his ring, and the relief he feels at having it gone is outweighed by the concern he feels for her.

There’s a sharp inhale, and then a soft sigh, before her ring is set beside his. The sight of them gives him a strange sense of sadness at parting with so many years with Astoria.

“I thought so,” she whispers. His heart aches, and he wonders if this is the right decision, but there’s no turning back now. For Ron.

And for himself, too. He’s always been selfish.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he is. “For everything.”

Astoria doesn't respond. She takes off her shoes and lines them up beside the door, next to his, and walks to their bedroom. Draco sleeps on the sofa that night.

O.O.O

Draco wakes to a loud shrieking early the next morning. He almost falls off the sofa, but sits upright at the last moment, breathing heavily. A silvery leopard stands before him restlessly—the source of the alarm—and Draco immediately summons his uniform before apparating to the Ministry atrium.

He rushes into the lift, down to the second floor, throwing his robes on over yesterday’s clothes. The only reason Robards would summon him with that alarm was if they had an emergency encounter in the field. When he gets out of the lift, he runs down the corridor, past Andrew’s unoccupied desk, and through Robards’s open door.

Robards is standing beside his desk with Williams, Harry’s partner, peering into a Pensieve. From the looks of it, Williams is injured, her robes torn and blood-soaked on her arm. It doesn’t bode well, but after years of dealing with this kind of concern and adrenaline, Draco compartmentalizes.

His eyes dart around the office, taking in the maps, the files on Robards’s desk, anything that might tell him where he’s about to be going. Harry must be in the field right now, dealing with something they aren’t prepared for, and Robards is seeing exactly what they’re up against.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Robards exclaims, withdrawing from the Pensieve. He spins around with a gasp, eyes landing on Draco, and visibly relaxes in relief.

“Malfoy, I need you to go to these coordinates with Williams right away. Potter and Weasley are being held captive inside, but you’ll have to walk to the building. There are wards set in place against apparation,” he says, grim, handing Draco a scrap of parchment with the coordinates.

“What’s happening?” Draco asks. Robards goes through the situation, giving as many details to Draco as possible.

There was a complaint about magical disturbances from a warehouse near a muggle community, which could threaten the Statute of Secrecy. Williams and Harry responded to the complaint with a team of Obliviators. It was a standard check-in until they realized Harry was _the_ Harry. Ron has always been their backup when things spiral out of control, but they were outnumbered and subdued.

“They sent me back and demanded to see you specifically,” Williams finishes. Draco shifts uneasily. Something isn’t sitting right.

“How many are there?” Draco asks.

“At least ten,” Williams replies. Draco swears and bites his lip as he thinks, then nods to himself.

“You’re our best negotiator, Malfoy. And Williams, we’ll send backup as soon as we receive your Patronus,” Robards says. With a sharp breath, Draco remembers that no one else knows he can cast a Patronus now—not even Ron.

He steps forward, holding his hand out to Williams, and she takes it. Focusing on the coordinates, he apparates with her.

As soon as they land, a stream of curses are sent their way. Williams throws up a shield charm as they dive into the trees, casting defensive spells over their shoulders. Between the bushes, he sees the warehouse, surrounded by a thick forest. The paved road to the warehouse is worn.

His thoughts turn to Ron, to whatever must be happening inside the warehouse, and he almost loses himself. He could rush forward right now, use the spells they’re taught not to use in training, but he reminds himself he doesn’t know the situation inside, or even on the perimeter. He can’t just rush out of cover like this. He shakes his head, pushing aside his anger towards himself for losing his head.

It’s then that he realizes Williams is casting detection spells and testing the anti-apparation wards on the building. With a deep breath, he raises his wand to start casting the same spells, reinforcing hers, looking for a loophole in the wards that they can breach. His breath hitches when he finds it: a small tear where they can break them apart. If Draco has to guess, Harry and Ron tore through from the inside.

The curses have finally stopped coming their way, and Draco starts putting up protective spells on his own robes. It’s time for negotiations.

“If at any point, I turn my palms to the ground, I need you to call for backup,” he whispers to Williams, who nods and readies herself to back Draco up in case it goes south, continuing to work taking down the wards.

Draco steps out onto the road, hands raised, eyes darting between the trees and the building. He knows where the wizards are, but the fact that he can’t see them is setting him on edge.

“My name is Draco Malfoy,” Draco calls. He’s acutely aware that his wand—tucked in his wand holder—is too far from his hands if he needs to get to it. Still, he takes a slow step forward and slips into a collected version of himself.

“I understand that you wanted to talk to me, and that you have some of my colleagues with you,” he continues.

“Don’t take another step!” a man yells. Draco immediately halts, heart in his throat. That voice is so _familiar_.

“I’m here to help,” Draco calls, “What would you like that I can provide you with?”

_Show that you’re here to help, not to harm_.

“The satisfaction of knowing you’re getting what you deserve,” the man says. Draco immediately understands that this was planned, Draco is the target, and Ron and Harry aren’t safe.

Draco opens his mouth to reply, but his words die in his throat when a man pushes open the door of the warehouse, a redhead crawling on the ground at wand point. _Ron_. _Fuck_.

Draco’s gaze is on Ron, on how weak he looks, his heart hammering. When he takes in the man, his eyes widen. He stares at Andrew in disbelief, not able to connect the secretary to what’s happening now. He almost thinks that Andrew is a hostage himself, before he centers his thoughts once more and accepts the sight before him.

“Andrew,” he says in greeting, nodding to the secretary. Andrew stands with a feral sneer on his face, gripping the back of Ron’s robes as he forces Ron up to his knees. The way that Ron’s head lulls makes Draco feel sick. How bad are the injuries?

“It’s _Steward_. We’re not friends,” Andrew spits, scowling. Draco’s heart skips a beat. He’s fumbling about this negotiation, and if he continues to do so, Ron could die. All of them could.

“All right. Steward, then. What do you think I deserve?” Draco asks carefully.

_Show them you’re listening, get them to talk_.

“You get everything you want, don’t you? You ‘reformed Death Eaters’ are full of shite. You deserve to have everything taken from you.” Draco lowers his hands slowly as Andrew talks, palms up. “I watched you catch all these ‘dark wizards’ while everyone else seemed to forget that _you_ were right there too,” Andrew growls.

Draco thought that the hatred for Death Eaters had dissipated over the last decade, after everyone with the mark had been put on trial, and even he spent a year in Azkaban. It was the worst year of his life. But apparently, he was wrong.

“I see. I didn’t get a life sentence in Azkaban, while the other Death Eaters did. It’s difficult to find the line between good and bad, and you think they got it wrong with me,” Draco says gently.

_Paraphrase what they’ve said to show your understanding._

“I _know_ they got it wrong with you. You’re a married man, aren’t you, Malfoy?” Andrew asks, a smirk falling into place. Dread creeps up Draco’s spine, sweat beading on his forehead. He realizes for the first time how cold it is outside.

“I am,” he says, inclining his head slightly, “My wife’s name is Astoria.”

“Everyone knows you’ve been fucking Weasley. It’s okay, you don’t have to pretend like you aren’t,” Andrew says, voice holding a conspiratol note. He winks, and Draco’s vision swims momentarily.

He turns his palms over so that they face the ground, praying that Williams caught the movement and that reinforcements will arrive soon.

_Buy time_.

“You’re right. I’m not the best person,” he admits, “But there are worse people out there, aren’t there?”

“Oh, for sure. Adulterers are low on the list, below murderers. And arsonists, maybe. And what about human traffickers?” Andrew replies. He drags Ron forward a bit as he steps closer to Draco, and Draco catches himself stepping forward, hand twitching towards his wand.

“Are you involved with the human trafficking case?” he asks.

_Still your racing heart and focus_.

Andrew doesn’t answer. He leans down and slides his hand into Ron’s hair, roughly tilting his head back to look into his face. Draco’s breath starts to come short, desperation starting to edge into him.

“He’d make quite a bit of money, wouldn’t ‘e? Couldn’t sell Potter—he’s too public—but Weasley could be worth ten thousand galleons, if I talk ‘em up to it,” Andrew says. Draco’s jaw clenches. He reminds himself to separate himself from the situation, step back, don’t let his personal feelings get in the way of the negotiation.

“Are these your plans for him?” Draco asks. Andrew’s grin sharpens, and Draco’s stomach turns over. There’s no doubt in his mind that Andrew knows exactly what he’s trying to do.

“Nah, I figured I’d just kill ‘im. Give you what you really deserve,” Andrew says flippantly, tweaking his wrist as though about to cast a curse. Draco’s wand is immediately in his hand, myriad illegal curses on his tongue, but he’s not fast enough. A blue, jagged bolt leaves the end of Andrew’s wand and hits Ron in the back of his head, and he collapses.

Panic rushes through Draco full-force, his steady head slipping away from him when Ron cries out in alarm and pain.Draco can’t identify what curse Andrew used. He doesn’t know what to do, and his fear spikes, guiding his wand higher as he readies an attack to get Andrew away from Ron.

Multiple things happen all at once. The anti-apparation wards fall with the sound of shattering glass. There are a dozen cracks of apparation from behind him as more Aurors arrive. Spells are cast all around him, some barely missing him.

Draco doesn’t pay attention to them. He flings a wordless _Confringo_ at Andrew, hitting him dead in the chest, and runs faster than he ever has to get to Ron. He’s hit by some hexes that rip through his protective spells and slash his arm and back open, but he’s barely aware of the pain.

Ron falls on the ground, convulsing, the blue curse traveling over his skin. Draco slides across the ground when he gets close enough, lifting him slightly and clutching him close. There’s blood on the corners of his mouth, his breathing is ragged, and Draco knows he can’t treat this curse.

He tightens his grip on Ron’s arms, squeezes his eyes shut, and focuses on St. Mungo’s. Ron’s convulsions get more violent mid-apparation, and he holds him closer, tighter.

He remembers the day they got paired together, how dead-set Ron had been on being Harry’s partner, and how quickly it changed after Draco started talking to Hermione and Harry. He remembers the first time he tasted Ron’s lips—like sweat and blood and urgency.

Ron stops convulsing and struggling against Draco’s arms, and he can feel it even while they’re apparating.

_Please, please. Stay with me_.

A thousand shared coffees flash through his mind. A thousand murmurs to put up a silencing charm. A thousand jokes. A thousand biting words that cut deep. A thousand shared pints.

Draco’s whispered “I love you” goes unheard.

Ron is dead by the time they land in St. Mungo’s.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I made you cry. I love all of you, thanks for being here for this rollercoaster. <3
> 
> also yes, I did "take inspiration" from John Connolly for the summary, don't judge me.


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